


Beach Week

by just_a_dram



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beach House, Cunnilingus, Developing Relationship, Drinking, F/M, Hook-Up, Kissing, Lacrosse Team, Oral Sex, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22101688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_dram/pseuds/just_a_dram
Summary: Beach Week: You drink. You hook up. Just not with your brother’s best friend.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 30
Kudos: 465





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa slides into the banquette, cold beer in her left hand and her right splayed out to help her move across the faux leather seat in her still damp bikini and cutoffs with an apologetic smile for the girl already sitting at the far end, staring at her phone. It’s the only seat left in the kitchen and she’s hot from the sun and too tired to stand. Otherwise she’d avoid taking a seat alongside Asha.

It’s hard right now to find an inch of space that isn’t taken up by some sweaty partially inebriated person. It would be too expensive to rent a place with enough room for everyone, so being on top of each other all week is part of the deal. Most the people sharing this house are Robb’s friends and they all treat her like a little sister, which is fine. But Asha is Jon’s friend, and she wants nothing to do with Sansa. That’s not just a guess born out of insecurity: Asha doesn’t even bother to weakly smile over her phone, doing absolutely nothing to conceal how unwelcome her presence is.

“Sorry if I’m bothering you. It’s so hot. I just had to come inside for a while.”

Asha arches her brows at her, as she chucks her phone onto the table.

It felt uncomfortable being ignored in this close of quarters, but as it turns out, being stared at is probably worse. She takes a sip of her beer and shoves her right hand between her thighs.

“You are bothering me actually, because you’re totally ruining Jon’s Beach Week.”

Sansa peeks sideways at Asha’s sharp-nosed glare. “What?”

“Jon Snow,” she says, hiking her leg up onto the bench they share, unapologetically encroaching on Sansa’s space. Her leg is long and lean and the bottom of her foot is dirty from walking around barefoot. Propping her chin on the arm she rests akimbo on the table, she goes mockingly wide-eyed. “You’ve known him your whole life, I think? That Jon?”

“Well, yeah.”

Of course she knows who Asha means, but there’s no way Sansa has in any way affected his good time. They haven’t even interacted, and Jon’s not the type of guy who acts put out by Robb’s little sister being around.

“What are you even doing here? You’re like a freshman.”

Sansa’s a sophomore, but she doesn’t get a chance to correct her or explain why Robb let her come along before the girl barrels on.

“You’ve got to realize he’s spending like all his time staring at you. It’s fucking sad.”

Staring at her? Hardly. Sometimes he grabs her a beer from the cooler without asking, tilting his head like a golden retriever, when he offers it to her, all big grey eyes and raised brows, but he’s just nice like that. He’s always been nice. And quiet. And kind of sulky sometimes. This week has been no different as far as she knows.

“I have less than zero interest in playing Cupid, you know, but it’s ruining my good time,” Asha says, tapping her chest with her ringed middle finger, “watching him act like such a loser. So, if you could tell me whether you have no interest or whatever, that’d be great. I’ll even put him out of his misery for you as a service to humanity. He’ll stop mooning after you, I can go back to having fun, and you can do whatever you’re doing here.”

Asha doesn’t look drunk. But she has to be. Or high maybe.

“Hello?” Asha says with an exaggerated bob of her closely cropped head.

“I think you’re confused? You don’t have to warn him off me.”

“Oh. Great. You’re interested then.”

“Wait. What?”

Asha pulls a face. Knit brows, pursed lips. It’s the _Are You An Idiot?_ Face. Sansa has a little sister who is a pro at making that face. But Asha’s spouting the kind of nonsense about Jon that Arya would never think to float.

“Interested in fucking him, I guess? I don’t know. It’s Beach Week. You drink. You hook up.” She winces. “You’re not a virgin, right?”

“Oh my God. Are you serious right now?”

Definitely high.

Asha grins. “Yeah, no, that’d be ridiculous. Sorry. You’re what, nineteen?”

Twenty. She’s the youngest one in the house. Robb and Jon graduated on Sunday, as did everyone else, except for Robb’s girlfriend Jeyne, who has one more year left.

But Sansa’s not concerned with Asha’s hot take on her sexual history or her age or what year she is. It’s this Jon stuff that is making blood rush in her ears.

She’s known him her whole life. Practically. There’s no question of having sex with him. He’s just there, hanging around. Like wallpaper. Besides, he would never think to mess around with one of Robb’s sisters, and Asha being the one to suggest it is seriously weird. It’s more like something Theon would push for out of sheer boredom.

“Weren’t you his girlfriend?”

Asha was around a lot last summer, acting bold and enviably confident. Sansa assumed she was with Jon. They worked at that camp in the mountains together, where you sleep outside and eat bugs or something. They look like they should be a couple. Like they would have been in the same clique in high school.

Unlike her and Jon. If they were ever a thing, it’d be an odd study in contrasts.

“Girlfriend,” Asha groans, sticking her tongue out, as her head lolls back against the wood paneling. “ _Oof._ I don’t do boyfriends. I mean, we’ve messed around sometimes. We’re just friends.”

That kind of friend.

Sansa has only ever had female friends. It’s hard enough to trust a guy you’re dating, so she can’t imagine wanting to befriend one of them. What would you talk about anyway?

Guys are the worst. She’s over them entirely. Especially after Harry and her sorority sister. Which makes it unfortunate that this house is wall to wall with them. Her friend Marg swore staying with a bunch of senior guys would make for a better time than the one she and the other KDs are having down the road, but Sansa has felt nothing but relief every time Jeyne plopped down beside her.

That relief is amplified one million times, when the screen door slams closed behind Robb’s girlfriend, cutting off Asha’s interrogation. Her sandy flip flops slap the floor as she walks into the kitchen with a “hey” and a wave from the hip, before standing on her toes to open the cabinet above the sink.

Asha reaches for her phone, tilting it to look at the notifications, and it’s the perfect moment to ask if Jeyne needs help, so she can escape this torture.

Or it would be if Asha wasn’t determined to humiliate her.

“Hey, I’m not going to tell you how the sex was with Jon,” she says with a tap of her phone against the table.

Jeyne pivots at the sink, still standing on her toes, a sleeve of Solo cups in her hand. They’re both watching her, as Asha gives her this apologetic shrug that is so fake Sansa knows she’s relishing every second of her discomfort.

Fingers splayed around her beer, Sansa gives it a jerky wave that sloshes liquid out of the neck onto her forearm. “You know what, I promise you I really don’t want to know… ”

Leaning forward, Asha grabs her by the shoulder, where it’s pink and a little tender from the sun, and squeezes. “Okay, okay. Woman to woman: the sex is great. Top three, easy. I know what you’re thinking, but Jon’s a lot better than he looks like he’d be with that stupid pout of his. So, if that makes a difference?” She releases her to lift her palms up like the scales of justice rising and falling. “I’m sure he’d rock your world. Or whatever. Just make up your mind. For my sake, huh?”

What she needs to do is say something quick, so she can play it all off as a joke. Otherwise, Jeyne will report back what she’s heard to Robb and make it seem like Sansa has been going around asking people how Jon is in bed. He’ll tell Jon. They’ll laugh at her. All three of them maybe. Robb’s pathetic little sister. Ha ha.

Or Robb will be pissed and send her home to Richmond with four days left to go.

Quick. _Quick_.

But she’s got nothing. Her mind’s a total blank.

Okay, not totally blank.

_What can Jon do that would earn that kind of review?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beach Week: You drink. You hook up. So what if he’s your brother’s best friend?

Sansa spends a restless night twisting under the scratchy rental house sheets, rehashing two dozen memories she’s got stored up about Robb’s best friend and wondering if she’s been missing something for a while. Then it’s a distracted day, trying to go about her business and not look like she’s suddenly paying attention to every little thing Jon does. But she is, and she can’t help herself.

_The sex is great._

Not something she ever expected to learn about Jon. Secondhand or firsthand. And yet, she has and she could, because Asha probably isn’t wrong about Jon being interested in her.

He’s got that fair skin like she does that gives everything away, when she catches him looking. Smiling back at him—To be encouraging? To make it not weird? At first, she’s not even sure—only makes the flush of his cheeks worse. But he’s kind of hot despite his embarrassment. Maybe he’s hot _because_ of his embarrassment. Cocky self-assurance is a turn-off at this point.

Joff got embarrassed, but it made him scary angry rather than sweetly self-conscious; and Harry didn’t give a second thought to how people perceived him. Maybe sensitive is the way to go.

Sansa has a very active imagination. It’s from all the reading probably. Isn’t that what they used to say? Too many novels were bad for young girls? She’s got a lifetime worth of romantic scenarios just a daydream away, ready for the insertion of whatever guy she’s crushing on. Even though she’s known him all her life and that could make it weird, it doesn’t take a lot of mental gymnastics to picture herself and Jon. Actually, all the random details she knows about him, how familiar he is to her, how comfortable it usually is between them, makes it a lot easier to picture how it could be. Like Asha said, but in other ways too. Couple ways.

God, she’s really thinking about what it would be like to date Jon.

Or they could just hook up. That’s what Asha meant, and for once in her life she could be that girl. Unattached and fun and determined to get what she wants. Who cares that he’s her brother’s best friend? Before Beach Week is over, she wouldn’t mind testing out Asha’s glowing assessment, because Jon’s being interested—and not for the first time, come to think of it—is kind of hot.

“Hey,” she says, as she arranges herself on the floor next to him at dinner, cross-legged and balancing her paper plate in her lap.

Even if he’s worried about Robb, it probably wouldn’t take much to get him to break down and make a move. Not with the way he’s been looking at her. Just a little encouragement probably, which she happens to be pretty good at.

He’s got a mouth full of hamburger that he tries to swallow so as to respond, but she nudges him with her elbow and fills the silence with an innocently voiced question before he can finish. “Do you remember that time we went swimming in the Lannister’s pool, when they were out of town? You and me? And everyone?”

It occurred to her last night, when she couldn’t fall asleep. Had to be four years ago, because she’s pretty sure Jon and Robb were seniors. Her parents were out for the evening, and they were under strict directions to behave themselves. That would have included not climbing the neighbor’s fence. Definitely not swimming at midnight with music playing too loud. Normally, Sansa would have refused to join them—she might have even called her parents to tattle—but it was July and the water was warm, and she couldn’t fight the allure.

They were fooling around, playing some game Arya insisted on, when all Sansa wanted to do was float on the big white swan and stare up at the stars. But despite being terrible at the games her siblings liked, Sansa ended up tagging Jon in the deep end.

Their skin felt slick, sliding against each other, as she wrapped her arms triumphantly around his neck. It felt nice in a way she wasn’t expecting, and she remembers how she stared at him like he was something entirely new. It was the first time she felt the electric thrill, the jolt of want and toe-curling conceit from knowing someone wanted her. Testing that feeling wasn’t something she was ready for, but she liked the sensation of him hard against her hip and his arms circling her waist. It’s why she didn’t let go or scream in protest, like the flat line of his mouth indicated he was convinced she was about to, as she slid higher up his body with a shift of her grip.

No, she didn’t want him to turn loose at all and if they’d been alone, she would have been happy to cling to him like a starfish all night. But they weren’t alone—Robb was messing with the playlist and Arya was shouting about revising the rules she’d made up—and guys can only take so much. She knows that now. So, when he’d peeled her off with a mumbled apology, she stuck her tongue out and then commenced not speaking to him for three months.

She smiles around her fork. “That was fun.”

Yes, he almost chokes, which isn’t the sexy response she’s fishing for, but the way she flusters him makes her feel powerful.

“Is that right?” he finally manages.

“We should have more fun like that, don’t you think? It being Beach Week and everything.”

He looks away from her and back, as he sucks in a breath. “You’re trouble.”

“Am I?”

“I thought you were the good Stark.”

The way he narrows his eyes at her is almost playful. He can tease her if he likes. Messing around with Jon might be fun, despite the sullen pout.

No, the pout looks kissable, which is how she knows she’s going to kiss him tonight. What’s the harm in a kiss? More than a kiss if it’s really nice.

Except, it feels like he’s avoiding her when he disappears after dinner. She drinks one and a half beers, slowly to keep her head about her, before she sees him through the kitchen window. He’s out on the porch with his foot up on the rail, sitting with the half of the house not loudly playing beer pong. Somehow he got by her to get out there.

She grabs an extra beer to use as a friendly offering. If she goes out there and he gets up and runs, it’ll look weird. He’s as good as cornered.

Squeezing in between the array of occupied plastic chairs on the porch, two Solo cups held aloft, she makes to join the group, stepping over stretched out legs in barefoot relevé. There isn’t a chair left for her to curl up in with her legs tucked inside her sweatshirt, but being short a chair is part of her evolving plan.

His whole body visibly tenses, when she pauses before his chair, and he grips the arms as if he might stand. He doesn’t have cotillion manners, but as far as thoughtful gestures go, Jon’s a natural. He’s been sleeping on the couch in the living room and she has an actual bedroom she’s supposed to be sharing with absentee Jeyne, but if Sansa told him she needed to crash on the couch, he’d give it up without a second thought. He’s always been like that. He helped move her into her dorm freshman year, hulking boxes in the heat along with her dad and Robb with a lot less complaining about the amount of stuff she’d brought with her.

She extends the cup that’s full to the rim to keep him from getting up. “I got this for you.”

Their fingers brush, and he says thanks after looking from her to the cup and back again, while she stands there, pretending to drink. He lifts his beer slowly, as if he’s waiting for her to walk away, but that’s not going to happen.

Okay, it’s just a ratty band t-shirt, but his arms look really good in it. Whatever her thoughts on lacrosse at the moment, it does a body good. Seriously.

“You mind?” she asks, even as she’s toeing in between his spread legs and lowering herself onto his thigh. Casually. With a big, totally non-threatening smile. All teeth. Nothing flirty about it.

Asha snorts from her corner of the porch, but what’s potentially more awkward than Jon’s caustic friend’s presence is Sansa’s brother, who’s balanced on the rail and staring. He ignores her a good ninety percent of the time like any other older brother, but now his eyes are zeroed in on her, an interloper suddenly interfering with his friends. She twists in Jon’s lap and gives Robb the same innocuous smile. Just a bunch of friends. Hanging out. Talking about whatever it is they’re talking about. A few chairs short unfortunately. Nothing he needs to worry about.

She turns back and taps Jon’s cup with hers, a dorky little cheers that makes his mouth twitch. Friendly, friendly, friendly.

“What are we talking about?” she asks, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“Um.” Jon clears his throat. “Lacrosse team stuff.”

Great.

Sansa wonders what Robb and Jon and the rest of them are going to talk about now that they’ve graduated, because it’s always team stuff, to which she has nothing to contribute. Not for lack of knowledge. Robb was captain this year; he deserved it, considering what he contributes on and off the field. Theon has a habit of taking too many chances on offense, but most of them pay off. Jon’s really good. Better than anyone gives him credit for, and she’d know, because she goes to every game. But with Harry also being on the team, it’s currently her least favorite subject.

“Yay,” she says flatly.

In her peripheral vision, she can see Robb screwing up the one side of his mouth, but whatever he makes of her plopping down in his best friend’s lap, his complaint is silenced, when Jeyne turns him back to her for a quick kiss. Either it’s just good timing or Jeyne thinks Sansa could use some help. Either way, she’ll take it.

Marg firmly believes what Sansa needs is a harmless hookup. Which feels a little chancy. Her ability to judge guys has been questionable at best, but she’s pretty sure Jon is a good guy. Like a real good guy. She’s probably safe with her brother’s best friend. He’s nice to her little siblings and her dad really likes him. He knows Robb would kill him anyway, and if he can be friends with Asha after, it’ll be cool between them.

Everyone except for Asha, who’s silently chain smoking, goes back to spiritedly recounting that win they managed in spite of Theon’s hand injury. They’ll probably end up talking through every play just like they did two nights ago, when this same exact story came up. No one cares about Robb’s little sister’s appearance on the porch or her chosen spot on it. Alcohol is great for creating invisibility in a crowd.

“So, what are you doing this summer?” she asks, steadying herself with a hand high on his thigh.

The muscle bunches beneath his jeans.

Since no one cares anymore, this time when she smiles, it’s not quite so innocent. The way Jon’s eyes skim over her, he can tell the difference.

“I’m, uh, starting my internship.” His voice has that raspy, bedroom quality that makes her press her lips together.

“At the veterinary hospital?” Jon’s always been really good with animals.

He nods.

“No camp this year?”

“Nope,” he says, pausing for a drink. “I’ll be around.”

It almost sounds like an offer.

It could just be passing interest on his part, and that would be fine. Perfect really for her purposes. She doesn’t need him to be violently in love with her. A little messing around, where she doesn’t have to pretend to be enjoying herself if she’s not, where she doesn’t owe the guy anything, would be perfect. But she hopes if it gets that far, it’ll be good; she really, really hopes so, because sex has always been kind of not so great and she’d rather it was for once.

“You helping out at the dance studio again?”

She didn’t think Jon had any idea how she spent her summers. “Yeah, I’ll be around too.”

That most definitely is an offer if he wants to take her up on it.

“Hold on,” he instructs.

Looping an arm around her middle to keep her from slipping off his lap, he shifts to pull his phone out from his back pocket. He sets it on the wide arm of the chair and sits back, dragging her squarely into his lap with a gentle tug.

The whole thing is kind of smooth. It’s definitely a maneuver, but it’s smoother than she would have thought Jon capable. Asha might have needed to make the first move for him, but Jon’s not entirely hopeless.

She lets her weight settle against his chest and pulls one leg up, toes curling over the edge of the chair. His eyes follow the bend of her leg.

“You cold?”

“A little,” she admits.

“You’ve got goosebumps.”

His right-hand spreads over her thigh. The goosebumps climb up the back of her neck, prickling along her scalp.

“Yeah, I think I’m done with this,” she says, setting her mostly full beer next to his on the arm of the chair. “Too cold. We need hot chocolate or something instead.”

“Like your mom makes,” he says, drumming his fingers against her skin.

He’s got good hands. Nice wrists. She thinks about those hands on her, in her, and her breath catches. There are like eight people on the porch, and she still wants to loop her fingers in his hair and drag his mouth against hers.

“Hey, man.”

Robb’s voice makes her jump, but for all of Jon’s embarrassment earlier, he doesn’t seem rattled by his friend, standing there with an arm around his girlfriend. Jon doesn’t even remove his hand from her thigh. It feels like it’ll leave a print if he does. Marked.

“What’s up?” he asks, sounding remarkably unaffected, just as all her calm cool is evaporating.

“So, we’re going to go play beer pong.”

“Okay. Cool.”

“You want to join?”

“I’m good. You?” Jon asks with a glance at her.

Sansa shakes her head. Jeyne winks at her, which makes her think it wasn’t just good timing a few minutes ago, but otherwise, they leave without anyone pointing out there are chairs available now that Sansa could easily occupy. Instead of Jon’s lap.

“You’re holding your breath,” Jon points out, as half the porch clears out.

“That was a little weird.” So much for her being the one to convince Jon that this was a good idea in spite of her brother.

“It’ll be okay,” he says with a pat to her leg that she feels like a shock in more sensitive places.

“He’s my brother.”

“Trust me,” he says, and she wants to, she almost does, looking into his grey eyes in all their dilated sincerity.

She always thought Jon was too serious. There are worse things to be.

Asha and the rest of them clamber over the rail and head down towards the beach. They’re alone, when his other hand slips just under the hem of her sweatshirt. She bites her lip at the inflating balloon feeling in her chest, as his thumb rubs over the skin above the waistband of her cutoffs.

“Hey,” he says, and she repeats it back just as quietly.

She wants to be the girl who just starts making out with the hot guy on the porch, but she’s not. Or she hasn’t ever been, and when Jon touches his forehead to hers, she knows with the racing of her heart that she won’t be tonight either. She needs to say at least one thing, so there’s no misunderstanding. She doesn’t want to come off badly, as bad as Harry.

“I broke up with Harry. I’m guessing you know that.”

“Yeah.” His fingers go taut on her thigh. “Yeah, I heard. You okay?”

Robb didn’t know about Harry and that girl—they’re on the same team but not really friends—so Jon probably didn’t know he was cheating either. If she launches into the whole sordid tale, he’ll probably sit and listen, but that’s not how she wants to spend tonight.

She nods, nose just brushing his. “I’m fine. I’m done with him.”

“I’m really fucking glad.”

Her answering smile is just blooming, when he presses his mouth to hers. He doesn’t have to say anything with how he kisses her. Happiness, affection, something raw and gentle all at once is pressed into each touch of his lips to hers. Yes, she’s been missing something and it was this.

She flattens her hand against his chest and scrunches his shirt in her fingers. His hand, warm and sure against her side, slides up as he gives her one soft kiss after another. Soft enough that she slips her hand into his hair to urge him closer to sate the feeling that’s coiling in her chest.

The ends of his hair, where it curls, are damp. That’s why he smells like clean guy—detergent and soap and deodorant. It’s a good smell. She breathes through her nose and her heart does something funny that makes her feel like she’s falling, as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss. Harder, deeper. Finally.

His tongue against hers drags a warmth from her that leaves her feeling limp and strung tight all at once. Their kisses taste like beer; she wonders what he’d taste like, kissing down his chest, lower, and the insistent press of his mouth is the only thing that muffles the noise she makes low in her throat. Desperation drives the rub of her legs together. He doubles it, moving his hand along her thigh until his hand fits to her body.

She gasps his name against his mouth, looking for some answer, some relief for her jumping nerves. Or just more of everything. His arm tightens against her back, and she’s arching into him, clinging, in a suddenly dizzy world.

A shrill wolf whistle cuts through her fuzzy headed arousal like a hot knife through butter. She pulls back, blinking in confusion. She wouldn’t even know where the sound came from, except he’s glaring at something beyond her shoulder, towards the beach. They’ve got an audience, she realizes, and her first instinct is to tuck her face into his neck.

He huffs, disturbing the fine hairs at her hairline. “I’m going to kill her.”

Just like that, his breath against her skin makes her restless again. If he kissed her there by her ear, she’d forget the spectacle they’ve created and indulge in a fresh one.

“Kill who?” she asks, though there’s only one possible answer.

“Asha. She thinks she’s fucking funny.”

She takes a deep breath, thankful for the cool air that crawls along her heated flesh. If she focuses on the chill, maybe she can regain some control. It’d probably be a good idea. If a bunch of drunks pile back in the house to cheerfully report what they’ve seen, her plans are going to be shot to hell.

He reaches up to stroke her hair, letting her sweatshirt fall back in place. “Sorry.”

“S’okay. I’m okay.” She traces the edge of his crew neck, where the skin is perfectly smooth. “I know she’s your friend, but she did say some really weird stuff to me about you.”

“Oh, Christ. I can only imagine.”

“Honestly, I don’t think so,” she says, disentangling herself to stand. She looks down at him in the warm porch light, as some misunderstanding causes his face to go protectively blank just as she holds out her hand to him. “But you should like get her a Starbucks gift card or something.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beach Week: You drink. You hook up. And it’s so good. Your brother will just have to deal.

Sansa wants to tell Jon to wait a few minutes to follow her, so no one suspects anything. A little discretion–more than they displayed on the back porch–is probably a good idea around his annoying teammates. It would give her some time to pull herself together too. Not a terrible thing, considering the smell of Jon’s soap has her feeling her pulse in embarrassing places.

But they don’t make it around the beer pong table without the team’s goalie snagging Jon’s attention.

“Can I ask you something?”

“I’m a little busy, Edd,” Jon says with his fingertips hovering above the waistband of her shorts.

“Have you seen the bathroom down here?” his reed thin friend asks, completely undeterred. “Or smelled it?”

Sansa wrinkles her nose. She really hopes he doesn’t mean to ask her to clean it. That’s the kind of thing some of her brother’s friends think is okay to ask her or Jeyne to do. But Edd has this shot of grey hair at his part that makes him look more mature than the rest of them. She’d inadvertently put him in a different category of guys, who don’t treat girls like servants.

He jerks his thumb towards the bathroom. “I’m realizing that putting my name on the rental contract is going to end as badly as it did last year. I’m never getting that deposit back.”

His point seems amply proven by a clang from the kitchen only he wheels around to acknowledge.

“Shit. That sounded bad.”

“Maybe not,” she says with a shrug.

“Might as well enjoy the destruction, I guess,” he says, lifting his cup at them. “Since I’ll be paying for it either way.”

“Sure, I’ll um… play a round with you later,” Jon says like he hasn’t followed a word his teammate and fraternity brother has said.

“Are you drunk?” she asks, bumping him with her hip.

“What?” he asks, eyes slicing to hers. She’s about to repeat herself, but he understood. “No. I’m fine.”

He seemed into it on the porch. Okay, he _felt_ into it–that was unmistakable–but these days, there’s always that gnawing self-doubt ready ready to creep in. Having your boyfriend cheat on you does wonders for your self-confidence apparently. But, there’s probably no point in worrying whether Jon really wants her, when he can’t even focus on what Edd’s saying.

She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip. Jon is downright cute all dumbly aroused like this. How did she never notice how sexy he was?

For God’s sake, one time, she rode the team bus back from a game, when Harry disappeared on her, totally stranding her without a ride, and she fell asleep on Jon’s shoulder. He’d been the safe choice of a seatmate, and it’d been so comfortable rocking along in the dark, her shoulder leaned into his, that she passed right out. Probably drooled on him and didn’t give it a second thought, because it was _just_ Jon Snow.

“You?” he asks, eyes skimming over her as if that might aid in his assessment of her sobriety.

“Nope.”

She’s never dated a guy that would have bothered to check. How messed up is that?

No, he definitely doesn’t have country club manners, but Jon’s an actual good guy. It makes her want him more if that’s possible. Screw doing the casual thing: Jon should be hers.

“Judging by the bathroom, you two are the only ones who aren’t. But there’s a fresh Pony Keg they just tapped if you want to contribute to the draining of my bank account through drunken mayhem.”

She runs her hand down the length of Jon’s arm, tracing the ridges of ropy muscle, until their fingers are linked. Just a firm squeeze, a silent message to hurry this up, and he taps Edd’s cup with his own.

“Later, man.”

Edd’s mouth opens and closes, fish-like, as he looks between the two of them and then squints over his cup. “Sans, if you’re that bored, you can always use my Netflix password.”

“Text it to me,” she says, as Jon gives her a sideways stare that makes her stomach flip.

“You’re an asshole, Tollett.” He tugs on her hand. “Come on.”

“I’m just trying to help,” Edd says loudly enough that she can hear him over the din, as they weave through the living room. “That’s how they stuck me with the rental contract.”

There’s a spilled beer soaking the corner of the rug, so he’s probably right about the deposit. Poor Edd.

Except, he’ll find a way to tell at least four people about them tonight in that matter of fact way of his, managing not to seem like a gossip, when he absolutely is. So, she doesn’t feel all that bad for him. Not when she’ll be lucky if her phone doesn’t blow up with angry texts from Harry before the night is over.

He’s _that_ guy. The guy who screws you over and then has the nerve to get pissed when you let someone else screw you. Pure ego.

So, there’s Edd, and Asha of course, and Sam knows what’s up based on how he stares, eyes glued to the ceiling like he’s trying really hard not to react, as they brush past him at the bottom of the stairs with their hands clasped. Robb probably knows. Even if she won’t glance back towards the kitchen to see if he’s watching them, when Jon steers her around the banister, he’s got to have noticed.

This isn’t the low-key hookup she planned out.

Well, her brother is just going to have to deal. Because when the bedroom door shuts behind them and Jon backs her into it with his thigh between her legs and his hands sliding up underneath her sweatshirt, she thinks she deserves this.

Marg really wasn’t off-base: this is precisely what she needs.

Forehead pressed to hers, his hands still. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you… ”

“All week?” she teases, wrapping a hand around one of those solid arms.

“Hey,” he says, running his thumb along the band of her bra.

She tips her face up, inviting him to kiss her again like on the porch. He doesn’t take the bait.

“I want you to know something.”

She has to swallow to answer. “Okay.”

She toys with the hem of his softly worn t-shirt sleeve, waiting. The silence that stretches out between them makes her want to chew the inside of her cheek, but she wears her most practiced, cool expression.

Something flickers across his eyes. They’re so dark they’re almost black in the dimly lit, musty beach house bedroom, but whatever it is, it’s gone, when he hikes her thigh up around his hip.

“You are such a menace in these shorts.”

She’s pretty sure that’s not what he was going to say, but his fingers depressing her flesh is almost all she can concentrate on. “Trouble?”

“You have no idea.”

He kisses her with the same gentle assault that drove her crazy outside.

First kisses aren’t like this. As far as she knows, they’re either bad sloppy or tentatively unsure, but never this tender. Like they have forever. Like he wants to take forever with her. It feels like he’s been thinking about kissing her for much longer than a week.

A sharp breath at the feather-light brush of his lips on hers and her lips part, but instead of taking advantage, he continues to linger.

The kisses he presses to her lips–her lower lip, full, off-center, and back–aren’t gentle like this from lack of certainty. He knows exactly what he’s doing: this is purposeful and deliberate, winding her up for something. His soft, thrummingly erotic kisses build with such slow promise that she can’t help but dig her nails into the muscle of his arm.

God, what could he do to the rest of her?

Her pulse thuds in her ears, she feels it between her legs, her whole body focused on him with a drugged kind of pull. His scent, every point where their bodies touch, even the sound of his breathing and the creak of the floor under his shifting weight–she can’t get enough of it. His arm must hurt with the vice-like grip she’s got him in, but he gives no sign of it with this measured testing of her mouth.

She nips his lower lip, tugging, asking for more, and he smiles into another soft kiss. His steady breathing brings his firm chest against hers with every inhale, the sort of contact she wants more of, as much as she wants to taste his mouth and roll around in sheets washed in whatever laundry detergent he uses. He smells so damn good.

While she paws at him helplessly, he’s going to kill her, drive up her blood pressure until she has a heart attack with her back pushed against a cheap slab door. Lingering longer with every kiss, the anticipation coiling in her belly will end her.

And he knows it. Smiling against her mouth, she’s convinced he knows it.

 _Bastard_.

She says his name like she’s begging, because she is.

He takes pity on her.

 _No, worse_. So much worse, she realizes, arching her back, as a callous on the palm of his hand snags on the soft lace of her bra. It a flimsy unlined thing, the prettiest one she packed, and it does nothing to keep her from feeling the warmth of his hand. His warm hands at her waist and breast and the puff of his breath against her neck, drives a needy sound from her throat, as he kisses from her jawline down.

Looping her arms behind his neck, she tilts her pelvis, straining towards him for more. Her head thuds against the hollow door, as he lifts her off the floor, two hands gripping her ass. If the dull contact hurts, she doesn’t feel it. All she feels, when she wraps both legs around him and he shifts her–just so–is the length of him hard against her. Right where she’s sensitive.

“Fuck.” His curse vibrates against her chest, while the thrill of the power shift between them sends tendrils of pleasure up her back and down her limbs.

Finally, he kisses her hard, lips parting and tongue sweeping over hers with a demanding heaviness that mimics the thrust of him against her. It pushes her up the door. Just an inch, so he has to chase her mouth. It’s more desperate, the good kind of wet that feels like sex. And again her back slides up the door, when he thrusts once more, head tilting, as he deepens the kiss.

As good as this is, and it really, really is, she’s not going to be able to _just_ kiss him: she wants to do a lot more than that. He does too based on that thick erection pressing into her stomach.

One-handedly fumbling with the doorknob that locks with a click, he walk-stumbles back the three steps to the bed, turns, and deposits her atop the sheets. Toeing off his sneakers, the way you shouldn’t because it ruins the heels, he grabs the back of his t-shirt and pulls.

The only light in the room filters in through the closed plastic blinds. She’s seen him shirtless before, dozens of times. So, when he throws his t-shirt to the side and steps towards her, she shouldn’t suffer this Pavlovian response, mouth filling with saliva like he’s a damn meal. But she does. Her heart practically knocks against her chest at the thought of touching him.

The bed sags under his weight, as he crawls over her, easing her down into the pillows and caging her in with his arms.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah.” _I am now_ , she thinks, since his mass pushes her into the mattress, satisfying some of that ache he’s triggered inside her.

Proximity is good too. It gives her the opportunity to run her hands over his chest down to where he narrows. His muscles twitch. His jeans are just low enough on his hips that she can see the v, the one that is practically an adult advertisement, she thinks with a lick of her bottom lip. He was skinnier back when she clung to him in the Lannister’s pool, and he didn’t have this path of hair above the fly of his jeans.

It’s sexy. Really sexy.

Her fingers curl into his waistband on either side of his fly. His pale skin is velvety. If she pops the button, she can find out what the rest of him feels like.

She frowns at the dip of his head, disappearing down her body and putting that brassy button out of her reach. It puts nearly all of him out of her reach, she realizes, letting her head rock back in frustration.

“What are you doing?”

Pushing her sweatshirt up around her armpits, he kisses above her navel. “Kissing you.”

The light rasp of the shadow of his beard on her skin and his lazy kisses paired with the tense hold he has on her hips sends waves of sensation out from between her restless legs. His mouth marks a path over her stomach–lower–and her hips cant.

She screws up her face. This isn’t like her. She’s a little actress in bed, but in her most enthusiastic, male ego boosting performances, she’s always been more reserved.

“What _should_ I be doing?”

“Oh my God,” she says, twining her fingers in his hair.

Like she could actually bring herself to say? She can picture a couple. His head between her legs, for one, but she doesn’t say stuff like that out loud.

“Sans,” he says, all raspy and low, his breath ghosting over her damp skin. “What did Asha say to you?”

She chokes on a laugh, because that’s not something she really wants to admit, as he works his way up her body to kiss over her bra. All she can see is the mop of his faintly curling hair, as his mouth closes over her nipple, hot and wet through the lace. Her knees bend, drawing up at the spike of pleasure.

“Hmmm?” he hums, peeling back the cup of her bra with his teeth.

Giddiness bubbles up in her chest. _Oh, what the hell_. “Uh, that you’d rock my world actually.”

He raises his head enough for his eyes to meet hers. His gaze is oddly dull before he rubs his chin between the valley of her breasts. “No pressure, huh?”

“Seems promising so far.” She ruffles his hair and bites back a grin.

There’s just a glint of white at the crooked upturn of his mouth, as he twists his head and scrubs the back of his neck. She’s always teased Jon a little, but this kind of teasing is so much better.

“There are condoms in the pink bag over there,” she says with a lift of her chin towards the cracked veneer dresser on the far wall.

She saw them in Jeyne’s cosmetic bag, when it tipped over, spilling its contents, as she was fiddling with her charger in the outlet.

“Yeah?” His brows draw together. The furrows make him look more like the Jon she’s accustomed to, all guarded and sullen. You’d think she’d offended him, instead of suggesting they have sex.

Yes, she’s really suggesting they steal Robb’s girlfriend’s condoms.

“Look, I don’t want you to think we have to.”

“I know.” She reaches up to smooth her fingertips over those dark brows. Whatever niggling uncertainty, she can erase it. “Don’t you want to?”

If he’d pull back, she would die right here of mortification, but he shifts his weight up and over her, not away. He cradles her cheek in his hand. “Sans.”

She turns her face, bringing herself nose to nose with him. It makes his eyes look huge. “Okay, well, I do too.” Seductive might be the better choice, but all she can manage is a light little chirp. “You don’t like… think I’m a virgin, right?”

A red flush spreads up his neck and he looks over at some spot beyond her ear. After a long pause, he huffs against her forehead, presses a kiss that’s painfully sweet there, and swings off the bed to pad over to the dresser. It’s a small bag, so there’s not much searching necessary to retrieve the silver foil square, which he brings back and tosses on the bed beside her.

"In case,” he says, as she sits up in the bed and reaches for his jeans.

 _Right. In case_ , Sansa thinks, as she pops that button.

Other people in her family are known for being stubborn, but she’s just as stubborn as any of them. She’s just more adept at persuasion, which means she’s going to turn this beach week thing into something more. Turn it into a summer. Turn it into whatever she wants.

She wants him.

When he kicks free of his jeans and boxers, there’s no denying he looks good. He’s got the kind of cock Marg would wax poetic about, which makes her cheeks go pink too, because she’s staring, fully dressed at Jon’s naked body like a pervert.

Only one way to fix that, she figures, but he stops her when her hands go for the ribbing at the bottom of her sweatshirt. “Let me.”

Her head and arms pull free of the sweatshirt, and once he’s nudged her back into the bed, she lifts her hips to shimmy her shorts down.

“Cold?” he asks, snatching up the sheet and ballooning it up over them before she can respond.

The goosebumps are partly from the cool night air, partly his hand skimming her side. That and the slow way he kisses her again, teasing her lips apart and licking into her mouth. She spreads her legs, letting him settle into the cradle of her hips. The pressure of him there heightens her impatience, and she urges him in closer with a hand to the small of his back.

He rubs against her and she answers back with a matching roll of her hips. The head of his cock doesn’t hit where she needs, but she chases the feeling, rocking with him, following his rhythm.

His hand slides down her side again, pausing at her hip, as she shifts, trying to rub against him again.

“I want to touch you.”

She nods. Yes, she wants those long fingers on her, in her.

He pushes the thin cotton of her panties aside. There’s no fumbling, no awkward game of seek and find. The air leaves her chest in a rush at the wet slide of his fingers over her and then to the center of all her spiraling need.

“Christ,” he curses. His elbow slips on the pillow and he makes a low, urgent sound. “I wish I’d asked you out before.”

“Before?” she says, trying hard not to whine, as his thumb tightens its circle and one and then two fingers curl into her.

Bracing himself alongside her, the sheet slides down his back, and his eyes go from hers to what he’s doing like he can’t decide what he wants to watch most.

Before. _Before_. Before Harry?

Her thighs squeeze around his hand, trembling. If he keeps this up, she’s going to come around his fingers.

“Why didn’t you?”

Why? When they could have been doing this?

It’s a bit of a pretzel, but she tries to work her hand around his arm to reach him, so he can feel like this too. He blocks her with a nudge of his elbow.

“I will come all over you if you do that,” he warns, and her heart skips hard.

Slipping his hand free of her, he grabs for the discarded condom packet.

She instantly misses his touch, throbs with the absence, and her legs fidget purposelessly on either side of where he sits back on his haunches. She has to actually bite back a command _to hurry up_.

It’s not the first time she’s been eager to get to this point–with a boyfriend. Sex is easy to romanticize. The problem is, it’s never turned out so great in practice.

 _Please let this be different_ , because all she can think about is Jon moving inside her. Now.

He tears the packet open with his eyeteeth. Well, he’s hurrying, but that’s not the safest thing to do, smoothly accomplished or not. Really smooth, almost practiced.

No, she won’t think about Asha or that other girlfriend of his–the redhead–as he pinches the tip and rolls it down. What was her name? Yvette?

His eyes find hers. “Would you have said yes?” he asks, brows raised and mouth in a flat line, as he grabs himself at the base of his bobbing cock.

 _Dear God_. “I don’t know.”

She’s not sure if that’s an honest answer or just what came out given the circumstances. Her brain is seriously scrambled right now.

But it doesn’t much matter, when he grips her hips and drags her half a foot down the bed towards him. The tip of his cock brushes where she’s slick and ready and he bears down. Just the head, and then more, working his way inside of her.

A warm flush starts low on her belly and spreads up her chest with the steady stretch of her body. His jaw is tense, breathing tight with restraint. Watching him like this, holding back and framed by the slatted light from the window, it’s not what she needs.

He’s too far away. Stretching out an arm, she clutches at his shoulder and hauls him down. Falling forward, the angle where their bodies meet changes. He bottoms out inside her.

He freezes at the hitch in her breathing.

“Oh, fuck.” Weight supported by his one forearm, the fingers of his other hand go taut, flexing against her thigh. “I hurt you?” he asks.

Her hands map his shoulders, down his side to grip his ass. “No. It’s good,” she says, rocking up into him.

Intimacy didn’t sound appealing at all, when Marg suggested a harmless little hookup. Sansa didn’t trust guys; didn’t trust herself.

But Jon wouldn’t hurt her. He’s not built like that. She’s safe and wanted and he’s moving inside of her so slow and deep that she can’t help her head lifting off the pillow.

“Oh God,” she repeats endlessly in whispery pants.

His hand threads into her hair, anchoring at the base of her skull. “You feel so good,” he puffs out in agreement.

And then he’s kissing her again along her neck, behind her ear, taking her earlobe in his mouth and between his teeth. Tingly swells of pleasure build in her belly at each long stroke and meeting of their bodies.

She wants to tell him it’s okay, that he can lose control–it would make her feel powerful to make him lose control–but she’s lost to speech, when his hand fits between them. The slippery tension he builds is too good. She pulls her leg up higher, shifting him inside of her and making more room for the play of his fingers over her.

His mouth misses hers, his hips breaking rhythm, as she scrapes her nails over his ass. “Don’t stop,” she manages to whimper, circling her hips, trying to fight against his shallow, erratic movements. He can’t come before she does; she needs this.

“I won’t. I’m not. Just… fuck,” he says, rolling his hips harder. His eyes lock with hers, pupils blown wide, lips parted. “I want you to come. With me inside you.”

Almost. _Almost_.

She comes hard. It’s blinding, it roars in her ears and bows her body around him. She wants to croak out something–oh my God would be appropriate–but she can’t form words, only groan as he drives into her and she comes around him. All she can do is cling to him, as he swallows her noises with a sloppy kiss and fucks her in shallow quick, slow deep pumps.

Peeling one arm from around him, he knits their fingers and stretches their clasped hands above her head. He says her name, face contorted and the tendons in his neck strung tight. His last thrust slams into her, and he collapses.

She can feel his heart, pounding, and his labored breath stirs the damp hair at her temples. He feels good, sinking her into the mattress. She doesn’t want him to move. Maybe ever.

She squeezes his hand, a silent message; he squeezes back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beach Week: You drink. You hook up. Maybe you end up with more than you bargained for.

The first thing Sansa notices, waking in the darkened room, is not the good, warm smell of Jon. Or how solid he feels, where her breasts depress against the side of his chest, as she curls into him, or where her arm drapes over the middle of him. Or even how appealing his lips look, parted by sleep. Unfortunately, what she notices right off is the crick in her neck. The rest of it dawns on her in a regretful way, since it all seems potentially endangered by the pressing need to move or suffer in silence.

It might be from the sex–the really good sex. Or this position they’ve been sleeping in with their legs tangled together and her head propped on his shoulder and the weight of his arm slung around her. But whatever the cause, her right side is definitely stiff. Enough so that she needs to risk making an adjustment. A subtle one, because the last thing she wants to do is wake him up.

If he wakes up, he could leave. Not to party with the guys–the house is quiet enough that she figures everyone has passed out–but to sleep on the couch, where he’s been camped out this week. She did tell him she didn’t know if she would have said yes if he’d asked her out. That in and of itself could seem like an indication of how he should approach what they’ve done tonight. It would be the casual thing to do, but the thought makes her stomach feel scooped out. Icky.

But she’s got to move. Just a little.

It’s not exactly _Mission Impossible_ , she thinks, lifting her head no more than a half inch. She looks cockeyed at him to gauge her success in remaining undetected.

She’s better at seduction than wiggling free of him apparently: his eyes open at half-mast and his brows draw down together before she even eases back down.

 _Great_.

She smooths her hand over his chest, trying to will him back to sleep, but his gaze finds hers and his hand trails up her side, dragging her cami with it. Not the desired effect and yet, not unwanted. He doesn’t seem to be drifting off exactly, when he mumble-hums, nudging her cheek with his nose.

“What time is it?” he says, voice slow and gravely.

“Dunno. Phone’s over there.”

Turning on his side in a rustle of sheets and careful maneuvering that leaves her half under him, he hums again. It’s rumbly, sexy in its quietness, and her fingers seek out his chest to make sure he doesn’t squirrel away. She’d like to pursue this dreamy feeling middle of the night intimacy with him. Especially since with her head on the pillow instead of tilted awkwardly, her neck feels appreciably better. She sighs in relief, as he slips his left arm under her waist and pulls her in close.

He’s hard. A giddy sensation bubbles up in her chest, as she rubs against him.

Despite the fact that he shows no continued interest in what time it is, she gives her assessment on a shuddery breath, “Late.”

For the time being, his interest is squarely on her. There are some benefits to waking a sleeping guy up. Eyes locked on hers and hips moving lazily–she’ll take that for now.

He nuzzles into her neck, lips and breath warm. She inhales deeply against the tingle in her scalp, when his mouth closes on her pulse point.

“Or really early,” she says, tipping her head enough to give him better access. “You want coffee?” she asks with a grin, as he pulls her earlobe through his teeth.

“No, I’m awake.”

His mouth finds hers and his thumb traces along her cheek, her jawline, tipping her chin up, as he kisses her. Slowly.

She wonders whether it would be like this every time. If he’d always take his time, teasing and spinning out her desire until her fingers are curled in and her toes bunched. If by the time his tongue brushes hers, she’ll be making these throaty, needy noises. She wouldn’t mind that.

She really doesn’t mind the way his hands move over her, mapping her curves in a way that feels as desperate as it is restrained. He’s reining himself in, all thready want from the tightness of the tendons in his neck to the flex of his hand at her hip. Held in check, until his fingers play at the band of her sleep shorts and she whispers his name and cants her hips.

Hand disappearing inside her shorts, his fingers slide over her and in–slick and long and crooked just so–and mouth falling open, her hands clasp at his shoulder. A few circles of his finger and her whole body begins to tighten, her need centering in on the small movements of his hand and the filthy things he murmurs at the shell of her ear. Things that would normally turn her bright red, but only make her legs scramble against the sheets in almost painful want.

She’s about ready to tell him to get another condom from the dresser, when he dips down her body. She grabs at him again, her body reflexively trying to stop him, because she wants more now. But then he slides her shorts and panties down over her hips, and with a kick of her feet, they’re discarded, as he nudges her legs apart. And he does exactly what she wanted earlier without having to ask, without it being about returning the favor.

That’s a first: Jon Snow is a damn revelation.

The scratch of his beard twined with the softness of the kisses he places along the inside of each thigh only make her feet more restless, but he anchors her hips in place, and then his mouth is there. Hot and wet and moving over her in such steady confidence that she can’t stop the rock of her hips, rolling against the pressure of his tongue. A hot flush spreads over her lower stomach, a deep ache, and she threads her fingers in his hair. She’ll be embarrassed tomorrow, but she needs this, wants it.

Two fingers pump inside her, amplifying the intensity of sensation, and there’s a brief moment where she wants to retreat away from the stroke of his tongue. It’s too fast. She wants to prolong this circling, drowning feeling. But, she’s lost all self-control and he knows too well what he’s doing. She’s falling over the edge before she can pull herself back.

She comes sharply. The pleasure rolls over her, radiating out to the tips of her toes, forcing her to curl in even as he holds her firmly in place. She comes for what feels like forever with her fingers twisted tight in his hair and his tongue and fingers still moving over and in her. Until it’s all too much, and she gives him a little shove with a grunt.

He pulls back just enough, and she says _oh my god_ half a dozen times, sucking in air. They’re the only words her tongue can form, an accompaniment to the lazy kisses he trails along her thigh–obscenely wet kisses.

 _Dear god_.

“Was that loud?” she finally asks, lifting her trembling hand to cover her face.

He laughs. The puff of his breath against where she’s sensitive draws one leg up.

“You’re fine,” he says, as he rests his cheek against her thigh.

He might be lying to save her from obsessing. It feels like it can’t be the truth, since that may have been the only time she’s been completely out of control with a guy. She wasn’t in her head at all; no crafting of a reaction.

She tries to feel mortified, but her body’s like melted butter and it won’t allow for it. She feels like she’s sunk six inches into the mattress. Like maybe she’ll never walk again. Which would be just fine. Especially if she convinces him to join her here forever.

Splaying her fingers, she cracks an eye open, then the other, feeling the continued nudge of his nose and drag of his beard in a fuzzy-brained bliss. Reaching down to run her hands through his hair, she stares up at the shadows on the ceiling.

She stretches her hand farther, enough to scratch her nails over the back of his head, then shifts her shoulders. Her neck doesn’t hurt anymore. Carding through his curls, she tests the arch of her neck with her other hand, tapping along the muscle to see if any stiffness remains. Nothing.

Grinning to herself, she wonders whether good sex qualifies as physical therapy.

“You want some water?” he asks.

She peeks down at him, wetting her lips with a swipe of her tongue. Water sounds good.

“Sure.”

Propping himself up, he pulls the sheet up to her stomach before he unfolds his body from the bed and stretches his long arms above his head. It does nice things for his abdominal muscles. Her heart skips, either from how good he looks, scrubbing at the back of his neck, or from the sweetness of him covering her up before he goes.

Someone’s playlist is playing downstairs, too quietly to make out, but otherwise the house is quiet. Hopefully, Jon doesn’t run into someone in his boxers.

She wince-smiles, as she slides down in the sheets and covers her face with both hands. She really slept with Jon tonight. Really, really slept with him. Slept with him and then messed around again. She has never done anything like that. Ever.

Maybe she should feel weird about it, because that’s not like her and it’s Jon, but also, _it’s Jon_. It’s kind of like how friends fall into being more and it’s serious right away. Direct pass.

Except, she doesn’t know whether it’s serious or whether he would want it to be serious.

At least he doesn’t show any sign of slinking off to the couch before people wake up, which must mean he has no intention of pretending this didn’t happen around the guys. Or her brother.

She kicks the covers back and sits up, pulling her hair back in her hands. She’d put it up to feel more together, but she’d have to go fishing in her backpack for a hairband and she doesn’t feel up to that yet.

The door he left cracked opens swings wide. He comes in, carrying two plastic pool cups. The door makes a hollow noise, when it closes, which reminds her how thin the walls and doors are.

God, she really hopes she wasn’t as loud as she felt in her head.

She swings her legs around to sit on the edge, and he hands her the full cup, as he takes a swallow from his and joins her on the bed.

“Thanks.”

Oddly enough, she didn’t feel shy with Jon’s head between her legs, but she does now, fully aware of her discomfort with not knowing where this is going, while trying to appear cool about it. The cool girl–that’s not a persona she’s ever attempted before. And she doesn’t really want to spend the summer pretending if they’re really going to spend the summer doing _something_.

Her heart is racing, but she forces herself to say it, to lead into what she’s feeling. “I’m not really a random hookup person.”

He squeezes her thigh. “I’m not a random.”

“No,” she tilts her head toward him. “You’re my brother’s best friend.”

His hand chafes over her leg. “That weirds you out.”

“Maybe.”

Her phone chimes from the dresser, where it’s been plugged in charging all night–once, twice, three notifications one right after the other–and she looks to her left.

“You need to get that?”

“No.” Two more chimes and she rolls her eyes. “I can guess who it is.”

“Your mom? It’s like four in the morning.”

Her mom texts a lot. She texts all of them, regularly, and you’ve got to respond within an hour or she gets worried. No one is supposed to worry her without reason. That’s the rule. Of course, Jon knows the rule. Because, he definitely is not some random guy. So, whatever they’ve just done, it’s never going to be some beach week hookup to be forgotten next week.

That’s what the rapid fire texting is about: her hooking up with Jon Snow.

“I’d bet my life on it being Harry,” she says, sipping from her cup.

Probably calling her any number of ugly things.

She knew someone would text him. Just knew it. Because who ever says girls are the gossips is wrong: guys on the team love to talk.

“He texts you?”

Her chest starts to tighten. Is a possessive ex a turn off? She really doesn’t want to spoil things before they’ve actually started.

“Not usually, but someone probably told him about us tonight or whatever.”

“Right,” he says, setting his cup on the bedside table. She hands hers over for him to do the same. “Come here,” he says, easing down into the bed with an upturned hand.

She follows, allowing him to pull her on top of him. That he isn’t saying goodnight at the first sign of drama hopefully is a good sign.

He swipes her hair back from her temple. “Sorry I mauled you on the porch.”

“I’m not.”

His answering smile, just a crooked little twitch of his soft mouth is enough to make her arch against him. His hand skates down over her back and she huffs out a shaky laugh at the squeeze he delivers to her ass.

“Probably set you up for his meltdown though. You want me to tell him where to go?”

“No, that’d be a mess. With team politics?”

“Fuck the team. He’s not _my_ teammate anymore.”

“True,” she says, drawing abstract shapes on his chest with her index finger, “but I got it.”

Harry will get bored and move on. Just like he got bored with her. In the meantime, she can ignore him. If she lets Jon handle it, she’ll be the girl who needs protecting from her bad decisions. She’ll mop this up herself.

“I really fucking hate him,” he says, sliding his arm under her shoulder and tugging her up his body until she’s eye level with him.

“Mmm… he’s not my favorite either.”

She goes practically cross-eyed this close, looking into his big grey eyes, and then he kisses the tip of her nose. She smiles so stupidly big. It’s sweet, so achingly sweet.

“That asshole beat me to it, you know.”

She braces herself on his chest, propping her chin on cupped hands. “How’s that?”

“Asking you out, and then I got drunk and told your brother I screwed up.”

She swallows, as his eyes flick to her lips and back. She is so entirely wrung out, but if he wanted to make out for the next hour or whatever, she totally would. Her pulse is already picking up, thinking about how nice his lips are and how good his hands feel clinging to her.

“So, if you’re dreading a big reveal, he already knows,” he says.

His gives her that flat smile, and she brushes his hair off his forehead, trying to draw something warmer from him. He’s closing himself off, after revealing something.

She knows it’s there, under the surface, more to unearth. Knows he’s good and kind, and he wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. But, he’s almost completely blank, as she scratches at his scalp with a frown.

Maybe a confession of her own will do the trick.

“I’d have said yes.”

Or she’d like to think so. It would have been the wiser move, rather than agreeing to go out with Harry in all his ego driven childishness. Maybe she’s just smarter now, because it’s a yes now for sure. Even if the sex didn’t rock her world. Which it did. Twice.

But a good memory might not be for the best, when it comes to romance. Yes, she has a whole store of romances saved up, ready to slot Jon into the romantic hero role, and sometimes, the best ones start with a white lie like this.

She rocks up to press her nose to his. His hand finds the back of her head, holding her fast.

“Are you still asking?” she asks, lips close enough to brush his.

And he kisses her and doesn’t hold anything back.


End file.
